


Who Wore It Best?

by fuckyeahlucifersupernatural



Series: 50 Shades of Samifer [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, M/M, Month of Kinks, Samifer - Freeform, Scratching, Topping from the Bottom, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam walks in one day to find Lucifer looking just like him. Question is, who wore it best?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Wore It Best?

**Author's Note:**

> **Kinks:** Selfcest, topping from the bottom, scratching/bruising
> 
> Part of the Month of Kinks installment.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fan-run and this writer is not officially affiliated with the CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., and other official affiliates tied to the TV Show "Supernatural." This user does not claim ownership to the official content of Supernatural and does not seek profit off of the work produced presently. Plagiarism of this current story will not be tolerated and will be reported following AO3's terms of service. The stories, additional characters I create, are mine. This story was not created for profit. Making profit is deemed copyright infringement unless sanctioned by copyright holders (i.e. CW Network, Kripke Enterprises, Warner Bros., etc.). Copyright infringement can range from paying a fine to actual jail time. Please do not claim this story as yours! Please do not sell this story! Please do not reproduce this story! All violators will be reported and dealt with severely! 

Sam hates to admit it, but Lucifer wears him better. 

The Winchester was taken by surprise to push his way into Bobby’s and find himself lounging behind the deceased hunter’s desk. Sam blankly watched his mirror image turn his head up from the desk, fingers idly reaching down and flipping the open book on the desk shut. Lips pulled into a habitual smirk that Sam’s memorized with the pads of his fingers to the skin on his lips, instantly realizing that the being in the chair was the Devil himself. 

It happened. 

_Did_ it finally happen? 

There’s a disjointed sensation creeping in his being and Lucifer chuckles, pushing himself off of his seat. 

“Relax, Sam,” he coos and Sam only hears his own voice hitting his ears. Lucifer’s gait is smooth, handling Sam’s long limbed frame with ease while Dean would snicker at Sam’s occasional clumsy trip or graceless stride. “You’re still in you,” Lucifer assures as he stops before Sam, both at eye-level and the Winchester’s scanning every inch of his mirror image’s face for a flaw. The t-shirt is certainly his, color faded due to being in the wash so many times. 

“Why are you -- um -- looking like me?” Sam finally asks, watching hazel eyes drop down low somewhere near his abdomen to rise up lackadaisically till they fell once more on Sam’s eyes. It makes Sam’s gut twist in anticipation and his body rocks lightly on his heels to see that restrained hunger flashing on his own face. 

Sam never saw himself as strong -- or at least not strong enough. He wasn’t strong enough to resist demon blood, wasn’t strong enough to control his intake when he was on it, wasn’t strong enough to save Dean from Hell, to save Adam -- just adequate. Yet at this moment there was this persona of unbridled confidence and energy sitting on Sam’s mirror image, exuding something Sam has haphazardly searched for through poor deals and stubbornness. Seeing this made him feel powerless and invincible all at once, unable to do anything save for dumbly stand in place. 

Lucifer’s the first to make a movement, weathered and calloused fingers reaching out to hook a finger around a button on Sam’s flannel. It curls around the button and pulls, a soft hush of thread and plastic unhinging before a quiet clatter of the button falling on the floor follows. 

“Nostalgia,” the Devil replies lowly and Sam’s pinned by silence, eyes turned downward to watch that solo finger rip each button. 

Everything seems to click when Lucifer wears his image. Every movement is precise and yet unbearably relaxed, like a feline whose coyly toying with its prey and basking in the sun all at once. Sam prided himself in his ability to meet Lucifer’s level of play once he began to become comfortable with the archangel. He wasn’t one to stand mutely and hold his breath, waiting for a command or an opportunity to arise. Sam took charge, if anything, tried to one up the Devil. If Lucifer nips at his skin, Sam bites down in response. He was given the luxury of being with something that could not break as easily and it allows him the beauty of forgetting the physical restraints he’d always had to have up for others. Even with Ruby he had to occasionally pull himself back in, worried he’ll one day break her neck open and gorge off her blood. But in the dark recesses of his mind that made him flinch, he found that terribly appealing...

Icy fingers are scaling his torso, stirring a shiver that races down his spine, abruptly pulling him from his reverie. Sam feels his gaze following those fingers, feeling each callous and scar he’s received from holding a knife and a gun run across his own skin. A nail scratches across an exposed nipple and he’s hissing, reining himself in nonetheless. It’s his fingers, but with the absence of the ability to predict what they are going to do next. Sucking in the air when a thumb is pressing into the dip of his hipbones, cool fingers slipping under the waistband of his jeans, he finds himself shifting his legs a bit further apart as if that would aid the whole process. A finger is digging into the skin underneath his hipbone, making Sam’s jaw tighten, only able to see knuckles now. 

“On second thought, perhaps this should stop,” Lucifer sighed, pulling his fingers away, walking past Sam. It’s so damn nonchalant that Sam’s surprised by the entirety of it all. 

The Winchester spends a second being confused and the remaining portion of the time spent closing the spot between himself and the Devil being annoyed. There Lucifer is wearing an imitation of him with a poor form of a ‘ _I care about your virtue_ ’ expression on his face. Before Sam can even wrap his fingers around a dangling wrist, he catches the curl of a knowing smirk as Sam’s lips meet it. 

This has been happening recently. Where Lucifer would bait him, initiate the action but never follow through, or take upon this ‘ _what would the church think of this_ ’ bullcrap that had Sam rolling his eyes. Before he’d chase after with mild amusement, like it’s nothing but a casual game of cat and mouse, but Sam’s not blind to not notice he, himself, is more intent in laying down the ground rules. He’s more intent in gaining just a bit more than an equal footing when it comes to the physical intimacy in this relationship.

Sam pulls his mouth away, hand still on Lucifer’s cold wrist to stare at his mirror image. For a few seconds, Sam saw himself through those hazel eyes, speckled with gold where brown creeps in. Sam saw more than just himself. He saw something better. He was more handsome. Stronger. More assured. Powerful. He was seen with affection that dared to be more. He was seen with all these qualities that Sam didn’t quite think he possessed. There’s determination and a ravenous intent that fills Sam, as if he was going to take what he saw and steal it for himself. As if it’s still not present in him, but this image of him has it all. He simply has to take it. A self-fulfilling prophecy in the form of physical actions between himself and this lookalike. 

A hand reaches out to grab the side of Lucifer’s face, fingers digging into the side of his scalp as he’s reciprocated with a greedy kiss. He’s pissed. Maybe simply annoyed. Frustrated that he wants that unbridled confidence, wants that steady assurance that everything will turn out the way he envisions it simply because he said so. More ambitiously focused. A dark and filtered sound leaves Sam’s mouth to be swallowed by Lucifer’s. Sam’s the one that has to pull away, lungs aching for oxygen, inhaling sharply into the room. His copycat chuckles lowly, leaning forward to catch Sam’s bottom lip with his teeth, earning a warning growl. Tugging on the bottom lip, pain making Sam’s lip feel briefly inflamed, Lucifer verbally prods at him when teeth release Sam, “Need a breather already?”

Confident. Taller. Seeing this idea of him -- what Lucifer sees in him -- seems attainable when it’s being worn before him. The ‘ _I have the whole world in my hands_ ’ persona that Lucifer wore with Nick looked beautifully terrifying on his features, as he examined him. There’s nothing that can’t be done, but now it feels as if it’s but just an arm’s reach away. It feels like a nudge in encouragement; just because Lucifer wears him best doesn’t mean he is the best. 

Sam pushes him. Lucifer allows himself to be moved, giving a thick chuckle that’s lazy and smooth. Finding the back of the couch against his calves, the fallen archangel sits down, waiting to earn a lapful of Sam Winchester. Instead the hunter slips out of his abused shirt, pushing it off his arms, “Take your shirt off.” 

The archangel shoots him a curious look, a smirk slipping on his face as he peels the t-shirt off his frame. Sam sits beside him, hands moving to urge him to turn around. The archangel grumbles when he’s being turned away from Sam, before actively resisting. Sam’s brows furrow when he feels Lucifer push against his hand, twisting back to face the hunter. 

“Turn around, Luce.” 

“And if I don’t want to -- _ah_!” 

Sam’s teeth latched on to Lucifer’s throat in response, teeth digging into the exposed throat, tongue pressing into the skin caught between. There is no pulse. No sluggish beat. No faint staccato. It makes Sam’s jaw clench, teeth digging further, as if if he bites deeper he’d find -- or rather force -- a pulse. Something not quite like blood spills into his mouth. It lacks that strong metallic tang. There’s something subtly sweet and light that reaches his taste buds, a heady sensation instantly kicking in. Sucking on the mark, Sam is earned a threatening sound that’s silenced when Sam lets his teeth sink in once more, giving an authoritative tug on the seized skin. 

There’s a drawn out hiss filling the air and Lucifer is shifting in his grip. Sam briefly thinks of Ruby. Of how he tugged her hair back until the muscles in her neck strained and her eyes watered, sinking his teeth into her neck. Sam’s fingers curl into brown hair and tugs, only relinquishing and removing his mouth from Lucifer’s neck when he feels the archangel come to a slow halt. 

Licking the angry mark on his skin, he dragged his tongue across smeared blood. Giving a ragged exhale of air, he asks once more, “Turn around.” 

The archangel remains still for a moment, earning a harsh nip by the bite mark before the archangel moves so his back is exposed. 

Sam lets his hand lay on the middle of Lucifer’s back, admiring the size of his hand against this exact projection of his own back. It’s difficult not to just simply take here and now. To just dig his nails into the back and latch his mouth back onto the already marked neck. To bite, tear and suck on it until the mark blooms across his neck in ugly shades of purple and red. But he reels himself back in, because he would be in control. He’ll take his time.

It’s different seeing Lucifer like this, wearing an imitation of himself. He’s sitting erectly, shoulders pulling back to pinch together when Sam drags his finger across his spine. There is a freckle by his shoulder blade and his finger drifts there, earning a sharp intake of air. Sam observes with coming glee, because he has nearly forgotten just how sensitive and vulnerable the back is. While he does adore the fallen archangel -- something that surely just earned his name even more further crossed out on Heaven’s list -- he rarely gets opportunities like these. Lucifer would rather bare his teeth and defiantly resist any sort of form of intimacy that involved his back. Whenever he does manage to get closer, it’s through clenched teeth and fists.

Here there is less resistance, as if wearing just the mere image of his true vessel provided some peace of mind. Just a bite to the neck is enough for Lucifer to comply. Tracing the dips and grooves of the back before him, Sam gives in to temptation, pressing his mouth against the spot between those shoulder blades. 

An exhale, melded with bits and pieces of a throaty sound, leaves the archangel. His back hunches, as if attempting to press the curve of his spine closer to Sam’s mouth. Sam continues on, invigorated and growing confident, sucking on the skin. His hands move, settling on the archangel’s waist, letting his mouth roam. Each vertebrae pressing upward under skin must be marked, sucked viciously until it’s blooming pink and red. As he watches the color of skin change, like splattered carnations aligned in a neat line, it stops above the small of the archangel’s back. 

Dragging his finger across each one, he watches that back slowly arch towards his touch once more like a feline, body hunching forward. Shoulder blades are further parting from the other, Sam leaning forward to kiss the underside of each blade. He can hear him breathing. The silent, breathless archangel breathes. Each intake and exhale of air can be heard, filling lungs long ago deflated. Sam wants to see that parted mouth, the trembling of a jaw that wants to just close shut but can’t due to this inescapable need to search for oxygen. They’re hushed but present, Sam nipping at the pulled skin on the shoulder blade. When teeth scrape against the bone of a left blade, that sound he heard before comes out. It’s not enough. Not nearly close to what he wants wretched out of Lucifer’s vocal chords. 

He teases and taunts each shoulder blade, fingers occasionally searching across Lucifer’s back like he’s reading Braille across the bruises. When he finds the middle of each one, he digs his thumb into it and sinks his teeth into whatever skin is before them, that sound increasing in volume. It fills Sam’s ears, that once subtle groan becoming more pronounced. Sam’s marking his copy’s back, imprints of teeth and fingers changing the surface. It’s hard not to scratch and mark this back. Hard not to let his blunt nails dig into skin and drag down. 

A sweet spot is found at the base of each shoulder blade. It makes the archangel reach behind him to grab at Sam’s knee, practically keening when Sam lets his teeth sink in and pull at this sensitive skin. Something nearly buffets Sam, mouth pulled back when the scent of juniper and sage bombards him. There’s a sense of accomplishment settling in as he can hear the quiet rustle of feathers accompanying the now panting archangel. Sam can’t see them, but he can feel wings occupying the space about him. The one to the left is pressed against his side, compact and neat, probably pinned to the couch. Without hesitation or caring if he may miss completely, he reaches out to touch it. 

Sam can hear his name being gritted out, the act nearly catching and smothering the moan before it can come into fruition. The hunter just gives an innocent ‘hmm?’ in response, fingers smoothing down ruffled feathers, imagination painting what he was seeing. Moving to areas higher up, following the arch of the pinned wing, there’s breathy moans leaving more frequently. Hearing his own voice played back in such a way makes him bite his tongue, beginning to become aware of the hot flush on his neck and the back of his ears. When he feels that he’s going to shamelessly join in, he pulls his fingers away, giving a thick swallow as he reapplies his composure. 

Pushing the sweaty brown locks off the back of his mirror image’s neck, he leaves a lingering kiss on the still cool skin. “Need a breather already?” Sam parrots back and he hears a hissed ‘brat’ from the devil. 

He’s promptly smacked by a wing, giving a disgruntled sound and finding himself laughing in disbelief when he’s being taken advantage by the action. “I call foul! H-hey!” Sam calls out, finding himself easily pinned onto his back, staring at the untouched canvas of Lucifer’s front. Awfully tempted to ruin it. “Wings are cheating,” the hunter defends, staring at his mirror image that’s awarding him with a promising smirk. 

“Wings are fair game,” Lucifer rumbles back, voice worn, coming out rough around the edges. Sam twists, as if to fight off the archangel sitting on him, hands pressing down on his shoulders. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I win,” Sam huffs defiantly, watching his own eyes staring down at him with coming curiosity, head tilting to the right like an animal just faced with something rather different. Sam expects to find the archangel refuting in the same manner. Expecting teeth on his neck. Something territorial and demanding, but instead he finds his copy sliding down his frame to work on the fastenings of the hunter’s jeans. They’re too quick and too clever. Sam marveling at how stupidly easy it is for Lucifer to maneuver in this visual imitation of himself.

Toes curl when his thighs are greeted with cool air, jeans tossed in the perpetual mess of literature and artifacts Bobby’s living room consisted of. Icy fingers curl into the waistband of his boxer briefs, and Sam’s already rising his hips to make it easier for them to slide off before the action has begun. He’s been hard the minute he pulled that first breathy moan out of Lucifer’s mouth, and a sigh of relief leaves him when his underwear is no longer a pressing restraint. But Lucifer doesn’t mock. Doesn’t chuckle. Instead there’s something determined splashed on his copy’s face, brows lightly furrowed in concentration. 

A hand settles on the couch while the other lays on his thighs, the hunter gasping when cool lips touch the top of his right knee. His skin feels as if it has been scorched by the sun, forever sunburnt, in contrast to the cold mouth on his skin. Lucifer turns his head up to make eye contact with Sam, the hunter shivering when eyes meet. He wants to hotly remind Lucifer that he won. That he was not going to cave in, but words keep on finding a way of becoming dried out on his tongue. 

There’s hazel eyes burning into his own, the only thing telling him that it’s not him being the cracks of light that are splattered among the irises. There are times where he swears he sees blue, but the colors of muted green and sunburnt brown devour it before Sam can squint at it. His mirror image moves down, powerful shoulder blades cutting through the air when Sam watches the archangel lean down. Whatever restraint, whatever control that he’s been holding in this situation is being taken away from him when he’s kissed up his thighs, goosebumps changing the surface of his skin but never the intentions of that sly mouth. Fingers are crawling across the inside of his thighs, hands pushing them apart as that mouth never leaves his skin. It’s mesmerizing watching his mirror image give languid kisses, making a slow trek upward and in the direction of the inseam of his left thigh. There’s a twitch in his fingers to reach out and push the mop of brown hair back, to tuck it behind an ear. He can’t. Fingers are busy fisting into the couch’s cushion, eyes forever pinned on the figure hovering over him. 

It’s a sweet spot he wasn’t even aware of. A mouth sucks on the inseam and his hips rise, as if it’ll keep that sensation of warmth forming in his belly just a bit longer. Sam feels himself take a harsh intake, an ache forming in his chest, when he catches his mirror image staring at him as he drags a clever tongue from the inseam of his left thigh to his hipbone. Lucifer sucks on the jutting bone, wet skin left to be insistently nipped at by the cool air, a shaky sound pushing past his lips. 

Lucifer pushes himself further up, a knee sliding against Sam’s side as the mimicking archangel’s mouth hovers over his. Sam lifts his head to kiss the available lips but finds the Devil pulling back an inch, chuckling in the cluttered space called a living room. There’s a teasing smirk that Lucifer wears that fits perfectly on Sam’s face, the Winchester idly points out, confident and aloof. There’s pride. Hot pride that shines brightly towards the Winchester, as if Sam uttered the correct word. He wants to voice this but a hand is slipping against his neck, a thumb rubbing at his Adam’s Apple, rendering him incapable of using words. All he can do is substitute what he wishes to say with a thick swallow and the sound of his own breathing. 

Lucifer leans down to only nip at his earlobe, breathing quietly into the shell of his ear. “You have no idea how beautiful _we_ are,” a voice murmurs into his ear, Sam’s own voice hitting his eardrum, “Especially when we’re together...” The thumb on his jugular moves, fingers following in tow across his collarbone, icy skin making his own warm flesh shudder at the constant difference in temperature. Lucifer compliments him. Feeds his ego that he keeps in check through modesty. He hears words of praise from his own mouth directed to him, or no, that’s Lucifer... Sam always perceives himself in a way that’s critiquing and nearly self-depreciating. He needs to improve here. Do better there. But hearing sweet nothings and praise pouring into his ear, ringing with his own voice, makes a hand pull from the couch’s cushions. His hand moves to fist into locks of brown, pulling the Devil away from his ear and promptly silences him with a bruising kiss. 

“Flattery will get you anywhere, is that what this is?” Sam growls into Lucifer’s mouth, feeling lips curl against his. Teeth sink into Lucifer’s bottom lip, feeling fingers dig into his skin, Sam’s leg threatening to slip off the couch now. Lucifer sucks on his own abused bottom lip when it’s released, head pulled back to stare down at the Winchester. 

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery, and I am dressed up as you.”

Sam’s leg does end up slipping off the couch, foot meeting floor, giving a breathy laugh. A forehead rests against his, Sam forced to look down to the space between their bodies. He watches a hand wrap around his length, releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Sam answers by raising his hands, cupping the Devil’s jaw. Pulling him close, lips meld against the other, sliding against the other’s perfectly. It’s then did Sam realize he was being spoiled. The kisses up his thigh, the reverent touches that drag from his outer thigh to the warmer insides, the compliments that are sincere. The feeling of enclosed fingers creating numbing pleasure shooting across his nervous system makes him pull back to gasp for air, his own fingers rising across Lucifer’s strong jawline to curl into locks of hair. This was for him. He did win. This was the victor’s feast. The do as you please. 

Sam opens his mouth, swallowing before asking hoarsely, “I win?” He knows he had, but he wants to hear it. To hear it from this copy of him -- from his own mouth. 

“You win.” 

He wins. Sam win and it's coming out of Lucifer's mouth. He wants to show his gratitude. He wants to kiss the very Grace out of the angel, but it’s difficult to breathe and complete the action when there’s a hand working him just the way that makes his very toes curl. “Bed,” Sam can only groan out, because the couch was not doing anyone any sort of justice. While Lucifer seemed perfectly able to maneuver himself so he looked nothing but composed on the couch, Sam felt he was continuing to slip off. As much as he rather simply endure, enjoying the sensation of hot twists of pleasure and warmth that comes with the steady pull and twist of Lucifer’s hand, the couch was limiting right now. 

Walking seems like a process that takes forever, his body feeling fevered. The cool fingers slipped between his feverish ones is soothing comfort, pushing himself into one of the rooms he’s claimed as his own for the time being. Whipping around to meet restrained hunger and that quiet curiosity mixed, Sam’s fingers slip out of Lucifer’s to sloppily remove him of all remaining articles of clothing. Rising up to cup the right side of the angel’s jaw, he greedily presses a kiss into his mouth. 

“Lay down,” he instructs against wet lips, feeling his mirror image to do so. Sam’s given another viewing of the marked and abused back, already beginning to turn purple and angry lines of red fading into a muddled crimson. Moving forward when the archangel begins to lay down, he feels pride make his chest swell. He doesn’t hesitate to crawl onto the bed after him.

Sam takes a moment to watch his mirror image sprawled on the bed, long limbed body bare and hair askew from where the Winchester curled his fingers. The Winchester supposed he never noticed the deep dip where pelvis began, or how the scar on his side ran nicely by his ribs... Sam reaches out to run his thumb across it, trying to remember where he got this one from. 

Sam’s the one in control, fighting and wrestling for it and victorious. But... 

Sam smiles, moving himself so he’s further on the laid out archangel, reaching for a hand. Pulling at Lucifer’s right hand, aware of eyes following his every action, his own fingers move the Devil’s long fingers. Bowing his head slightly, he takes the index finger into his mouth, sucking on it lightly. Adding in a second digit into his mouth, Lucifer finally sits up, mouth pressing into Sam’s marked neck, lips feeling Sam’s throat move when he swallows the saliva building up in his mouth. Pulling his mouth off of Lucifer’s fingers languidly, he finds hazel eyes meeting hazel. 

“I didn’t win...,” Sam breaks the silence, finding a questioning look forming on the archangel’s face. “ _We_ did.” 

Sam yelps at the sudden shove of Lucifer’s mouth against his, inhaling the icy air in the Devil’s mouth, feeling his lungs freeze. Dropping Lucifer’s hand to grip at his shoulder, he feels the archangel’s untouched hand grabbing at his backside. Lips messily part, Sam pulled further into Lucifer’s chest as wet fingers search and ease him open. Those icy fingers curl and push, making him whine and twist in his lap, but Lucifer keeps him in place. Sam’s aware of cold puffs of air hitting his skin somewhere on his collarbone. 

Wrapping his arms around his copy’s neck, the archangel impatiently removes his fingers, opting with digging his nails into Sam’s backside. There’s a trapped growl in Lucifer’s throat as he guides Sam, the growl shifting into something menacing when the hunter sinks down. 

Sam lets Lucifer control him. Lets him hold onto his hips and create a slow rhythm. Each push allows Sam to become slowly accustomed to the being before him, feeling the back of his ears becoming scorching hot once more at the realization he’s allowing an exact image of himself thrust into him. Groaning into the building pace, Sam feels a half-formed grin on his face attempt to form at the concentrating archangel before him. Seeing that face nearly scrunched up is endearing and he knows better to share that with the prideful archangel.

Moving his arms from Lucifer’s neck, he lets his hands push down at his copy, earning a displeased sound but little resistance. Hands slide across the unmarked chest, Lucifer’s displeasure silenced when Sam sits up. He’s given an open view of Sam's front, length hard against his abdomen, precum leaving a smeared trail around the Winchester’s navel. There Sam lifts himself up before sliding back down, the muscles in Sam’s thigh shifting underneath skin. 

Hands remained flat on Lucifer’s chest, feeling the coolness of the archangel seep through into his hot and sweaty hands. Leaning down close, his mouth sloppily searched for Lucifer’s, he relishes in the sensation of his own lips against his. He’s being kissed by his mirror image, feeling lips match too perfectly against each other and it’s a disgusting rush when Sam boldly pushes his tongue into the mouth against his. He traces the inside of his own mouth with his tongue, feeling every familiar molar against it. 

Both sink into this comfortable rhythm, Sam given full control of the pace. His thighs are beginning to ache but he doesn’t relent, not even bothering to wonder or figure out if Lucifer or himself are the source of the wet groans and pulled out moans that ring about in his ears. 

He knows the archangel is close when the hands on his hips suddenly clamp down, daring to leave imprints of his hands to be acutely seen tomorrow morning. Sam’s forced to a halt, a harsh sound shoved out of him when Lucifer’s hips violently snap up. It’s a precursor of what’s to come, hips beginning to build a steady pace, pushing up into Sam. The hunter finds himself forced to lean forward by the punches of bliss that hit him in the gut when he finds that sickeningly sweet spot being abusively rammed into. He wants to look at Lucifer’s face -- _his_ face. But it’s so damn hard to force his eyes to open when he has the archangel pushing into him, fingers digging deeper into his backside. 

Determined, he moves his head back, eyes opening to look at the fallen archangel. 

Sam feels himself tremble in anticipation and arousal, watching this copy of him groan and tilt his head, a tanned neck exposed. The body beneath him arches, hips attempting to rise even further from the bed, face twisting into pleasure at the white hot sensation coursing through -- or at least what Sam is feeling at the moment. This feels like the time he curiously jerked himself off in front of a mirror in his teens, narcissistically admiring himself and forgetting how just moments ago he was loathing his scrawny limbs. All Sam can think of is how thrilling and enjoyable it is to watch himself writhe and buck, coming with a shout, his voice filling his ears. 

There’s a distinct sensation of something wet running down the curve of his backside, choked whines stuttering off his tongue when he feels Lucifer give a few lazy thrusts, wet sounds making hot shivers dance across his spine. Stilling finally, hands slide upward to rest on Sam’s waist. There’s a thumb running across Sam’s sweaty skin and it makes the hunter sigh softly into the warm air. There beneath him is now the image of the Devil he’s familiar with, his chronic case of bed head considerably more disastrous than usual. 

Sam reaches out to run a hand through it, watching Lucifer close his eyes at the gesture. “You really think that highly of me?” he finally asks, in muted and shared content. 

“There isn’t a version of you I don’t think highly of,” comes the response. Sam thinks he might just take up that challenge of trying to kiss the very Grace out of Lucifer starting right now.

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


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